


A boy called William

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: After the Fall, Delusions, Early Days, Everyone thinks Sherlock is dead, Explanation of Anderson's resentment of Sherlock, First Meetings, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Lestrade and Anderson have something in common, Loneliness, M/M, Memories, Mentions of drugs, Old Wounds, One Night Stands, Online Dating, Past Infidelity, Reminiscing, Resentment, Secret Crush, Set between Season 2 and 3, Uncomfortable Truths, past indiscretions, past sexual encounters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Anderson first met Sherlock on a dating site. So did Lestrade.
Relationships: Philip Anderson/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	A boy called William

Greg enters the pub and spots Anderson sitting there already, waiting, his beard unkempt and those beady eyes looking all over the place, that manic look that never truly goes away anymore, scouring the place, probably searching for clues even in here, in the very familiar police bar where they have been meeting for years, long before Sherlock Holmes, heck, long before Lestrade was a DI. In another time, eons ago. 

He can see from the way Anderson’s hand twitches around his glass of pint that he is antsy tonight, so it is probably going to be one of those evenings when the sole topic is going to be about Sherlock and his supposed survival, a fairy tale Anderson has clinged to like a child looking for comfort, when reality is so grim that it apparently can’t be tolerated. 

Lestrade has come to accept this behaviour, he knows what a guilty conscience feels like, he suffers pangs of it himself from time to time, especially in the beginning, when everything had still been so fresh and raw. Now it feels more like a lingering bruise. Fading but still sending a jolt of pain occasionally when carelessly touched upon. 

The tiresome thing about Anderson is not that he chooses to believe that Sherlock is still alive and working his deducting skills somewhere else around the world, it is a nice idea actually and one Lestrade would have liked if he hadn’t been so painfully aware of the harsh reality of Sherlock’s fate. 

No, the problem with Anderson is that he simply refuses to let the subject go. He doggedly wants to prove his theory over and over and there is no convincing him that he is wrong.

Lestrade signals to the bartender what he wants, deciding to not dwell on the fact that it isn’t automatically a good thing when someone you don’t know is so familiar with your preferences that no words are necessary, and then he sits down next to his former colleague, exchanges the normal greeting phrases and tries to cast a poignant look at the telly behind the bar in an effort to steer the conversation away from the topic he knows will eventually come soon enough. 

Three beers down they are deeply buried in Anderson’s conspiracy theories, fully backed with what he considers to be hard-proof evidence of Sherlock’s existence but to anyone else is simply random articles cut out from papers, concerning small and quirky crimes from around the globe and Lestrade wipes a tired hand across his features. 

He never particularly warmed to Anderson even when they were colleagues, he would choose Donovan’s company any day of the week over the former forensic technician’s, but still, he can’t help but feel sympathy for the man, despite everything. 

Anderson is clearly regretting his actions prior to Sherlock’s suicide and is nothing if not repentant about his role in the downfall. That he has chosen to believe that Sherlock isn’t dead after all is certainly unfortunate, but it will be the heavy burden of a psychiatrist, not Lestrade, to handle, when and if Anderson one day decides that he is ready to accept reality.

Anderson is also one of the few people who actually knew Sherlock that Lestrade still can talk about him with and that is a strong reason why he continues to shows up to these bar meetings. 

At the end of the day, not many people are left who are willing to talk about Sherlock Holmes and even if Lestrade knows that times goes on, he sometimes feels the dire need to just talk about old memories or simply share experiences with someone who was around at the time and knows exactly what he is talking about. 

John Watson is not an option 

They were never particularly close even when Sherlock was still alive, they had primarily interacted during cases and then shared the occasional beer down the pub, but nothing more than that. 

Lestrade suspects that John still harbours some ill feelings towards him even if not voiced out loud and he can’t really blame him, he feels the same way sometimes. He blames himself a little bit as well.

There are many “ _what if’s_ ” left to ponder and a lot of people’s actions around the time of Sherlock’s suicide does not look that great in the sobering light of the aftermath. 

But the main reason why Lestrade really can’t talk to John about Sherlock is because John no longer talks about his former flatmate and friend. He hasn’t so much moved on as he is simply trying to survive and Lestrade can understand the wish to not tear at wound that still pulsates raw and painful just beneath the surface, so he stays away and allows the space John needs to eventually heal. 

Sally Donovan is another person who doesn’t wish to talk about Sherlock, but for completely different reasons. 

And frankly Lestrade isn’t sure he would be able to talk to her about him either, too much bad blood between them when the man was still alive and her role during the last couple of days of his life is a wedge he isn’t sure either of them will ever fully be able to come to terms with. 

So better to just trudge on with blinders intact, remain the work colleagues they have always been and settle for that.

Since Mycroft Holmes is out of the question for numerable reasons, primarily because ice runs steadily through his veins and he, if possible, had an even more active part in Sherlock’s downfall than the rest of them, Lestrade basically only has Anderson to turn to and since Anderson at least has gone through a refreshing change in attitude towards Sherlock it means that Lestrade feels that he can address whatever he has on his mind regarding the most brilliant but simultaneously infuriating person he ever met.

And now, in a last effort to steer Anderson away from the most hair-brained theories regarding Sherlock’s survival, Lestrade decides to change the topic and goes for something comfortably familiar that they both can relate to and that has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with curly-haired decidedly dead geniuses.

“Did I tell you that Gregson has got himself one of those dating apps?”

Anderson blinks like a mole coming out into the sunshine after days of digging blindly through dark tunnels beneath the surface. Then he snorts inelegantly.

“Well, good luck with that!. As far as I’m concerned, those dating apps are nothing but a con-man’s game for the sexually frustrated ones easily fooled by a pretty picture.”

Lestrade gives him a wry smile while he orders his fourth pint. He should have stopped at three, but he isn’t feeling very eager to return to an empty flat and besides, things are perking up at the change of topic, right?

“Speaking from experience, eh?” He says.

Anderson gives him a sour look but then rolls his eyes and lets out a huff of laughter.

“Well, now that you mention it.....”

“ _Really_?"

An affirmative nod.

"Pre-Donovan I assume?”

“Yes, obviously.” Anderson pauses and then turns to give Lestrade a contemplating look before he shrugs, as if deciding something for himself.

When the bartender hands Lestrade his pint Anderson continues, his voice a little strained all of a sudden.

“I know you all thought I hated him because he was such an arsehole to me on every single crime scene, but the fact is....” 

He stops and takes a mouthful of his own beverage, hardly touched since he has been the one doing most of the talking previously. 

“....The first time I met Sherlock Holmes was on a blind date arranged after a few flirtatious texts between us on a dating site, presumably like the one Gregson is now putting his hopes into in search for someone to warm his bed during cold and lonely nights.”

Lestrade coughs and feels the beer he had a second earlier raised to his mouth, come snorting out of his nose instead. 

“ _What??!_ ”

Anderson raises his eyebrows, not completely unlike the person who is no longer with them had tended to do on various occasions. But then he gives Lestrade a sly smile.

“Yes, I thought that would pique your interest. You know, when he first started consulting on our cases the whole team thought you fancied him and possibly even shagged after office hours, or why else would anyone tolerate that waspish tongue he had? But secretly I knew why you did it. Because I knew what hid beneath that prickly surface. Or at least I thought I did.”

Still reeling from shock Greg wipes his face with a napkin, probably looking as incredulous as he feels.

“But how? I mean......I didn’t even know.....that you, you know......ahem, fancied blokes.......I mean, you’re married and all?”

Anderson immediately retaliates. 

“You’re one to speak, Mr Twice divorced! I still saw your eyes linger on Holmes on more than one occasion during the years.”

Embarrassed Lestrade scratches his neck but then nods, because damn it if it isn’t true and he isn’t above admitting it. Besides, they had all seen it anyway, what would the point of denial. 

“When was this?” he asks, trying to steer uncomfortable truths in another direction.

Anderson looks wistfully into his glass.

“Six months before I first encountered him on a crime scene. Me and the wife were going through a bit of a....” 

His voice dies down because the Anderson marriage has never been a happy one, even with Donovan and (apparently Sherlock) taken into the equation and it isn’t a particularly well-kept secret.

Lestrade has sometimes wondered why they insist on staying married when Anderson is clearly having it off with other people and the wife most likely knows about it but doesn’t seem to care what her husband is up to. Case in point this absurdity regarding Sherlock’s survival of the fall. If not even lunacy can result in her divorcing his sorry arse then nothing will. 

Lestrade wonders if he would have wanted his own wives to have persisted in their marriages but realises that it is pointless to speculate as circumstances had been very different in his case and he likely would have filed for divorce himself if they hadn’t beaten him to it. Besides, who is he to reproach Anderson anything when his own cheating history hardly is a clean slate. 

“Tell me more,” he says instead.

Anderson shrugs.

“Not much to tell really, it was just a one-time thing. I saw his profile on this dating site....”

Lestrade feels something uncomfortable unfurl inside his abdomen but remains silent. 

“I don’t remember the name of the site but it was a spur of the moment kind of thing. You know when you stay late at the office, trying to catch up on paperwork and you get bored and begin to search the internet for mischief.”

Nodding internally Lestrade admits to knowing that feeling all too well but doesn’t voice it out loud.

“Anyway, I spotted his picture by chance and there was something in the way he looked that just intrigued me I guess. Well, you remember how it was with him, all dark and mysterious with that great coat and the curls. Granted, he didn’t have the coat in the photo, but it wasn’t the clothes that made him. It was the whole package. There was a strange sort of allure to him, even back then, so I sent him a text and he texted me back less than an hour later. Then we exchanged texts for little over a week before deciding to meet.”

Anderson downs the rest of his pint but unlike Lestrade he doesn’t order another one straight away.

“Called himself William for some reason. Or maybe not surprising really considering what kind of a name _Sherloc_ k is....” he mutters and for a second Lestrade closes his eyes at the mention of the familiar name. A pang of sorrow crosses his features briefly but Anderson doesn’t notice, too deep in thought to pay attention. 

Oh the irony of it all Lestrade thinks.

Then he clears his throat and pushes his thoughts away.

“Oh yeah?” he says, a tad too cheerfully, urging Anderson to continue.

“Yes, if you can imagine Holmes opting for an ordinary name like William,” Anderson snorts and balance is restored. “He was really just a little twink at the time, I can’t remember how old he was back then but he didn’t look a day over 20 to me, although he must have been, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I was really eager to meet him. We met at a café close to where he lived and he was nothing like the person he later presented us with. Posh as hell, sure, all clipped vowels and a public-school air about him but still, _very_ charming.”

“Was he high?” Lestrade can’t help but blurt out.

Anderson shrugs, trying for nonchalance but not quite pulling it off. The thought must have plagued him from time to time over the years.

“Who knows but probably. He didn’t _seem_ high at the time though. Afterwards I have tried to figure out why he was even on that site to begin with because he sure as hell wasn’t looking for permanent love or affection. Which became abundantly clear when I never heard a word from him afterwards, despite many attempts to get in contact. Not until he crossed the police tape at the first crime scene we worked together, was introduced to me as Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective by you and never once acknowledged that we had sex in that dodgy flat at Montague Street six months earlier.”

“That’s harsh,” Greg murmurs and finishes his beer.

“And yet very much in line with who he was whenever I encountered him afterwards. He could be quite poisonous if you recall, and I quickly grew to resent him. Mostly because I didn’t figure out what it was all about, why he acted like we had never met. It was probably all just some sort of experiment to him. A study in social behaviour of the common citizen or something. An experiment no one but him could make any sense out of, like all those other ones he always had going. Remember when he kept eye-balls in the microwave?”

They laugh and for a second it all feels easy between them, those kinds of memories are safe, they belong to simpler times.

But at the back of Lestrade’s head Anderson’s theory is nagging for attention. He has spent countless hours searching for the answer to that very same question himself.

Because there was a time when Lestrade also met the William of Anderson’s anecdote, prior to Anderson, prior to any consulting work with Scotland Yard. 

William 19, dark soft curls for him to card his fingers through, a slim, agile body, those plush lips wrapped around Lestrade’s cock for one night only. He had worn his shirtsleeves down, no sign of any track marks although they must have been there of course. Lestrade knows that Sherlock turned to drugs at 17, it was in a file given to him by Mycroft once in an effort to spook him off from continuing to work with Sherlock on cases. 

He remembers William/Sherlock actually laughing and then purring as he had pressed Lestrade’s body against the dingy back of sofa in the same Montague flat Anderson was invited to. The laughing itself should probably have tipped Lestrade off that the boy had been high at the time, but it had seemed so genuine that he never could be sure.

Lestrade saw that flat plenty more times later on but never under the same circumstances as that night. Afterwards it was all business, always related to “The work”. 

They never addressed that night afterwards either, Lestrade out of some misguided shame for having it off with someone too young for him and at the end of the day too complicated and Sherlock.....well, whatever reasons he had he never divulged them. 

Lestrade never forgot but he moved on of course, a lot of other things got in the way, like his own second marriage, their working relationship that eventually blossomed into a real collaboration of sorts, then Sherlock's move to Baker Street and the arrival of John Watson. The years rushed by until the end came to a screeching halt and it was all too late for any questions to be asked.

Anderson’s story is just another little piece of a puzzle that will never be finished.

He gets up from his bar stool and sways just a little bit. 

He is getting too old for downing four pints on an empty stomach after working all day. 

Anderson looks at him, a little disappointed, as he always tends to do these days, as if Lestrade is the one off his rockers and not him. 

“I think it’s time to head home, I’ve got an early shift tomorrow,” Lestrade murmurs and begins to search for his wallet. There was a time when he never knew if he would find it in his pocket on account of deft fingers pilfering it, in search for his police badge. He doesn’t have to worry about that anymore though.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Anderson says before that embarrassing pause arrives where he can’t think of an excuse of his own because Anderson doesn’t have anywhere to be in the morning. He’s been unemployed for months and is likely to stay that way if the unkempt beard and the crazy theories continue. 

“Thanks for the laugh though, It was nice seeing you,” Lestrade finishes and pays his tab. "I'll let you know how Gregson's dating app works out."

As they head out into the brisk evening air outside, the cold wind pinching their cheeks and sobering their minds a little bit, Anderson lingers on the pavement where Lestrade is going to call for a cab to take him home. 

He apparently has more on his mind.

“Despite resenting him for it, for.....well, discarding me I guess, I still remember that night I had with him quite vividly. When he was just William, not Sherlock Holmes the great detective with the bolshy attitude and the razor-sharp tongue. High or not, he was more human that night than he ever was later on.”

“You’re probably right in it simply being some sort of experiment,” Lestrade offers, digging his hands deep into his pockets on account of the cold. He knows they sting, those words, but it’s all he can offer without blurting out that he knows what Anderson is feeling. 

He can’t say that he has thought much about his night with William over the years, but he has kept it as a fond memory nonetheless and he knows what Anderson means about the humanity of that young boy. High or not, there had been an intimacy there never to be experienced again.

Two lonely individuals crashing together for just one night.

He is not sure how he feels about Anderson sharing that same experience, it takes away the idea that Sherlock decided to be human for one evening only and Lestrade simply happened to be the lucky bloke who caught him with his guard down, but there is nothing to be done about it of course. It happened and then it ended, simple as that. 

Just like the rest of Sherlock’s life really. Here one day, gone the next.

“See you around,” he says when a cab finally pulls up for a stop in front of them. Because they will continue to see each other of course, these nutty bar dates will not cease on account of this. 

But this will probably be the only time when they talk about William. 

The next time they meet up, order will be restored, back to drinking beer, Greg moaning about work and Anderson presenting a new theory on why he thinks Sherlock Holmes is still out there. 

But they will both continue to keep him in the back of their minds of course, like they have always done, the memory of a night once shared, with the other version of Sherlock. A boy called William.


End file.
